


Old Friends

by plurality



Series: Function() [1]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Expanded characterization for minor characters okay, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Canon, it's important to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plurality/pseuds/plurality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She meets him while working on a rather troublesome OVC terminal on the Goldwalk Promenade in the late afternoon. It's an inauspicious meeting, but in the end, it all works out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Because Function() characters need love too.

She meets him while working on a rather troublesome OVC terminal on the Goldwalk Promenade in the late afternoon. A young man drifting through the streets with a faraway look, he does not give much of an impression to her, especially when he nearly knocks over the terminal.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, helping her straighten the machine, "I don't know where my mind goes, sometimes."

"It's fine. I was - finishing up, actually." When the terminal freezes again, despite more than an hour's worth of work, she curses. She skipped lunch for this? "Then again, maybe not."

The guy winces, and because he genuinely seems apologetic and upset, she decides she'll spare him from her frayed temper.  He shuffles around, makes as if to leave, then stops and turns back.

"I - well, I'm really sorry. Can I do anything to help?"

She looks up at him. "No, I got this," she says. Then, "Well, you can grab a flatbread to make it up to me. That is, if you have the time?"

A tentative grin and a hand offering an olive branch. "I've got time. Sorry about all of this, I'm Maximilias Darzi."

"Lillian Platt. No problem."

They debate about the merits of the Supremo Deluxe versus the Harvest Garden until she finishes her job, and end up having an impromptu lunch on the Bay. Must make quite the sight, she supposes, but then, this _is_ Cloudbank. There have been stranger sorts around.

"So what were you doing wandering around if you weren't going anywhere?" Lillian asks, watching Darzi out of the corner of her eye.

He picks at the intricate spider-web patterns on his sleeves before pushing them up and claiming a slice of flatbread for himself. "I like to move when I'm thinking," he says, "Lately, I've been itching to design something, but I haven't the idea what. So I'm stuck taking a lot of walks these days."

"You're a designer."

"Yeah, fashion. Clothing, like my uh, shirt. That I have on. Right now." Darzi looks away, to the edge of the Bay, where small waves lap at the dock's beams. "I'm on the edge of an idea, but it's not coming to me fast enough. I hate it when that happens, you know? I gotta find something that'll help with that."

Lillian finishes her slice in the resulting quiet, and pats the box between them. "It'll come to you. You'll find - I don't know - something or someone that inspires you, I'd guess." She mentally reviews what she had just said, and lets out a huff of a laugh. " I'm not much help."

Darzi smiles, a flash of white teeth turns toward her. "Not as bad as you think, Ms. Platt. But, why were you working on that terminal, back in the Promenade? You don't have the techie uniform - I'm being nosy, aren't I? Sorry, you don't have to answer."

"Research,"  she says. "OVC Terminals are so buggy and clunky that they're not distributed right, which is a shame, because it's a damn good idea. I'm hoping to fix a lot of those issues and make it easier for people to use. That way, there'll be more around, which makes everything go smoother for Cloudbank."

"Like how we still have to drop by an administration building to vote?"

"Exactly."

Lillian lets the conversation thread go, and they finish the flatbread in amiable silence, watching people go by, the gentle waves, the sky as it fades into the magenta and lilac sunset colors of the day. Darzi sighs at the sight, and tosses the empty box into a trash receptacle, fiddling with his sleeves.

"I hope I've repaid the damage I did, Ms. Platt," he says lightly, wistful in the manner of leave-taking.

She gets up from the bench, finding herself reluctant to leave without further conversation. "And I suppose I've kept you long enough, Mr. Darzi. I hope you get your idea soon."

"Likewise with the terminals," Darzi returns, and turns to her just as she's turning to him. "Could we -"

"I'd like to -" Pausing and staring at each other in silence, Lillian can't help but laugh. "Sorry, you go first."

"I, well," he says, "Could we talk again? If you don't mind, of course."

Her 'yes' is a foregone conclusion, they both know this, but she voices it anyway. Some things just have to be said.

 

* * *

 

A month later, when Sybil Reisz begins Fashion Week with a show, Maximilias Darzi becomes the new face of fashion in Cloudbank. Lillian has the fashion show on a separate screen for background noise as she wades through lines and lines of coding. Though she'd wanted to attend with her friend, Maximilias had insisted on her focusing on her own work for the night. _Don't want you to set yourself back a day on your big breakthrough, just for me,_ he'd said, _we'll have our own celebration when we both succeed. It'll make me happier, at least_. And on the day before the show, with his nerves shot to pieces, what could she do but acquiesce?

She bounces her leg on the floor as she continues to smooth out the bugs for the newest OVC update. But when the current designer bows and takes his leave, and "Mr. Maximilias Darzi" is announced, Lillian spins her chair to face the other screen.

Watching the first model strut out, she remembers Maximilias calling her out to his studio and dragging her to his design board, all bubbly energy with a wildness she'd never seen before in his eyes. What had followed were exhaustive days and weeks of dropping by with a box of flatbread to lure him away from his cloths and measuring tapes, of calling to tell him to _go to bed, dammit, it's 7 AM you've been up all night_ , of him coming to her place after all was packed away for the show and settling in for a well-deserved night of movies and rest.

So when she sees Maximilias back straight and head held up high as each model made his or her rounds, showing off a multitude of colors and styles that surprises the crowd, she smiles. And as he takes his stand to receive praise for his 'bold and effusive work,' as put by the commentator, Lillian makes her decision. She saves what little headway she's done, and shuts off the screens just as Maximilias head to the backrooms.

Thankfully, the show isn't too far from her place, so she arrives before the whole thing ends, even with the heavy traffic. She flashes the pass she'd kept at the door to the large preparation room, and it slides open without a sound.

"Max," Lillian calls, easing past the rushing models, the frazzled looking designer trying to salvage a dress, the rows and rows of clothes.

He scrambles over to her, still flushed from the exhilaration of success, and nearly lifts her up with his hug. "Lillian! You were supposed to be working tonight."

"Wasn't making much progress, you know," she says, flippant. "So I’d thought I should drop by. Congratulations, Max." She adds, more sincerely.

Laughter bubbles out of Maximilias like he can't contain it, and he takes her hand, leads her to his designated corner, where the start-and-stop atmosphere of preparations fades. "I can't believe it," he says, "everyone seemed to like my stuff, right? I wasn't hallucinating?"

She pats his hand, still holding hers in loose grip. "Nope. It all happened. You're a star."

"Which reminds me, wait right there, Lillian." And there he goes, into the racks and racks of carefully crafted dresses and suits, and reemerges with a dress she hadn't seen on the runway. Or, now that she looks back, had she seen it in his studio whenever she was around. Maximilias shows it off with a flourish. "What do you think?"

It's beautiful." And it is, careful golden circuitry patterns stitched into the neckline, standing out against the dark  blue-green fabric.

"I'm glad that you like it," he says, "because it's for you."

"Maximilias Darzi," she says, "I can't possibly -"

He all but shoves the dress into her arms. "You do need something to wear for the party after the show's over, you know. So please. For all you've done, it's a gift."

Lillian takes the dress.

 

* * *

 

 She's happy for him, really. Every week comes with new orders for him to work on, and Cloudbank's eyes are on him, anticipating what will come next. But she isn't making any progress at all on her own projects. On the days where absolutely nothing of value is accomplished, or when her research hits a dead end, she's very close to scrapping the entire thing, damn the consequences and damn the years she's poured into it.

"It's that 'on the edge of something' feeling, Max," Lillian says, over drinks, "It's so close I can almost reach out and touch it."

 "You're thinking too hard," is his response, "When you focus on these things too much, you can get, you know, lost? No, I meant, rather, you overlook things you would have noticed otherwise."

The wine shines a dark red as Maximilias pours her a glass and pushes it into her hands. "This is your way of telling me I should take a break, isn't it."

The tone of her voice doesn't stir him in the slightest. "Yes," he says, completely unabashed and blithe. "Now drink, Lillian. Haven't seen you outside of your work in ages."

Lillian laughs, and obliges him, her dark mood passing. "How's your own work, by the way?" she asks, watching how his face lights up, how he seems to vibrate with energy.

"It's wonderful, Lillian. I can barely put down all the ideas I have, now that I've got the ball rolling, so to speak. There's absolutely no time, not enough time at all in the day for all of them."

"You're only human, Max," she says, carefully.

"And so are you. Remember to take your own advice as well," he snaps, and Lillian blinks.

Her brow furrows. "Wasn't saying you should stop doing what you lov."

"Sorry. Sorry about that, I - yeah. Sorry."

Surprise and worry gnaw at her gut. It doesn't fade even after he takes his leave.

 

* * *

 

Despite coming to his studio so often his neighbors recognize her by name, Lillian can't help but feel that something's off when she drops by a week after what she calls the Incident. She'd seen more and more of Maximilias's flashes of temper over the last few days, and the latest one, where a loud argument  had ended with him ending the call, had her decide that something was really, really wrong.

So, here she is, knocking for politeness' sake and getting no answer. The door swings wide open when she fiddles with the doorknob, and chills run down her neck. "Max? You in there?"

The lights are still on, and the fan ruffles the papers and cloths strewn haphazardly around the wide area. Maximilias's sofa he uses when she forces him to take naps is completely covered with completed clothing, and mugs are scattered on the tables. Something cold lodges in her heart when she upends an empty one to find baggies of unmarked pills and dust.

_Oh, Max, what've you done now?_

A soft thud of dropped cloth bolts, and Maximilias Darzi snatches them out of her hands. "Why don't you ever mind your own business, Lillian?" He snarls, and only now does she see his dilated pupils, his harsh breathing.

"Max," she says, but her voice sound distant through the rushing in her ears, "how long?" When he doesn't answer, Lillian pinches the bridge of her nose. "Max."

"Look," Maximilias hisses, slamming down the newly stuffed mug down, and spins to face her. "This is why I didn't want to tell you, okay?  Go tell the world, 'Clothier Maximilias Darzi gets all his ideas from drugs. He can't do anything without them,' that's what you're thinking, right now."

Lillian catches at his waving arm by his wrist with a loose grip, frowning at how thin it had become. "Max," she says, "do you think, of all people, I'd do that?"

"I - no. No." His mouth is pencil thin, and he shakes off her hand to wring his hands.

"We'll just - just sit down, alright? And then we'll talk."

"We're talking right now, aren't we. But, sure, we'll talk. Like old times. "

Because the sofa's too piled up, they drag out stools from the kitchenette to sit facing the studio, not each other. At first, they sit in silence, just taking in what had just happened.

Then:

"Without them I feel like I can't do anything, you know? It's like my mind can't work fast enough. I - I hate that. Walks don't help, nothing I do can get it to work. These, though…they help with that. They jumpstart my brain, and it's like seeing for the first time all the possibilities."

"I see."

"And you. You're like, you know, a spark of energy," Maximilias says, "you always have an idea, and you make it happen. Yeah, you're in a slump right now but you're pushing through it, and you are. You're making progress. Sometimes I'm jealous, you know? But not for long, 'cause you're my muse, and I don't know how I'd have made it this far without you."

Maximilias's hand ends up finding hers, and she squeezes back, to reassure him, to reassure herself that her friend was still himself, that he was here. Lillian sighs, and shifts closer to him. "That's what friends are for, Max. "

"Friends," he says, wonderingly. Like it's a word he'd never heard before, like he'd just learned the most precious secret his life has to offer. "Feels like I've been waiting for someone like you to be my friend. I'm sorry, but I can't not take it. I just can't."

She leans on his shoulder, and says, "I'm just worried. But if that's what you want, I'll help you take care of yourself. You have to eat."

"And sleep?"

"Of course. And clean up, because this place is a disaster."

He laughs, quiet and soft, and Lillian breathes a little better.

 

* * *

 

So she fixes up the spare room in her apartment to something resembling a second bedroom, and Maximilias cleans up his studio to make room for her workstation. And, life goes on, as it does in Cloudbank, and they fall into a rhythm, of sorts.

Lillian works and works with programs and numbers, troubleshooting for different areas in Cloudbank, with Maximilias's busy work as background noise. It's surprisingly easier, this way - when she has to tear her eyes away from the screen, away from precise calculations and programs and emails, she could just walk over and let Maximilias jabber away about his newest idea.

And when she orders take out from various restaurants, or tries her hand in the kitchen, she coaxes him away from his workstation and shoves a fork into his hand.

 _Eat_ , she'll say almost ritually, _it's been hours since you even touched food_.

And he'll frown at her in confusion. _It's been that long? You know how it goes, 'time flies when I'm working.' Are you sure, because it sure doesn't feel like it's been hours._

Time passes, and it's almost normal, almost peaceful.

Then, despite all of her caution and care, Lillian realizes, with a sickening jolt, that Maximilias is only getting worse, like she had feared. Fashion Week after Fashion Week, she watches, over her screens, as he takes higher dosages of his fix, as he nearly breaks his mannequin after he can't get one part of the suit to look right, and worries.

And the week before the latest event, after Maximilias had finished his showcase collection, Lillian stops him from leaving for the studio.

"We need to talk."

He huffs, and even as he crosses his arms, she can see that his hands are shaking. "Yeah? Look, Lillian, the show's in a week and - "

Her hand cuts him off with a sharp, jerky movement. "The preparations are done, and everything's packed. What we need to talk about is your collapse yesterday. Max, this is getting out of hand."

"Well  - that was a unusual case," he says, "I didn't sleep well the night before, you know? So I was more tired than usual and - "

"You never have a good night's sleep anymore. And you've hardly touched your meals. I'm worried for you."

"I shouldn't have to explain myself to you! You're not my mother."

 She rubs at her temples. "Listen to yourself for a moment, Maximilias."

And his whole body slumps, cut strings and boneless, as he falls back onto a sofa. "I know," he says, "I know, alright?" When she pulls him into her arms, Lillian can feel the tremors along his back, hear her friend's efforts to hold himself together with glue and hope. "I need them," he continues, voice trembling like a frightened animal ready to bolt, "I can't do anything without them."

"You don't need them," she responds, speaking into his hair, "Without them you're still brilliant, I hope you know. So please - it hurts to see you this way. We'll figure out a way to get through this. Together, alright?"

She counts his quick, jerky nod as victory enough.

 

* * *

 

The post-fashion show party is in full swing, and multitudes of attendees and celebrities and models bustle in and out of the banquet hall. Champagne and finger food and silks and Lillian has to have a hand on Maximilias's arm to anchor him, to give him some idea of solidarity, as well as to keep her own self anchored to this moment.

"You can do it," she murmurs to him, and receives a thin smile in response.

"Can I have everyone's attention?" He steps forward - _led to slaughterhouse_ , her mind treacherously murmurs - and all at once, Cloudbank's eyes and ears are on him. "I'd like to disclose something very personal to me, right now."

And then, it's time. Lillian pays little attention to the words he speaks, because they've gone through the whole speech over and over again, and when he's steps back, almost fearful of what the response would be, she finds his hand and squeezes it. Tries to convey the amount of pride she has for him, and hopes she'd succeeded.

They stumble home, energized and overwhelmed all at once. Maximilias swings between crying and laughing, while Lillian reads aloud the numerous messages left on the OVC for him, and her eyes and throat burn as she does. Pity and shock and rage and support all at once, and tomorrow the city will be abuzz with the news, and the day after that will bring challenges upon challenges, and she'll recruit someone to clear the studio of all temptations, and - maybe, just maybe, she lets herself hope, things will be alright.

 

* * *

 

It hurts. It carves holes into her chest when she has to see her friend, pale and shaking, off for therapy, when he seems to lose all vibrancy on the toughest days. But what can she do but simply be there when he suffers nightmares and wakes up panicking and terrified?

It's all she can do, now that her life's becoming far busier with demands for presentations and talks and demonstrations on her research. She meets person after person, and she is hounded by the city's eyes and ears.

"Do you have any opinion on Mr. Darzi's condition?"

"Have you known about his dependencies long, Ms. Platt?"

"What would you say your relationship to him is, exactly?"

No comment. No comment. No comment. She had left them with the vague, "I'm sorry, I have another appointment and I cannot, mustn't be late," and takes refuge until they spot another newsworthy story and leave her be.

One day, Lillian only makes it home when the skies are painted dark umber and brown for the night. "You holding up alright?" she says, soft and barely louder than the click of the locking door behind her.

Sprawled on the couch, Maximilias gives her a haggard smile. "Well enough, considering, you know, everything." And his eyes sweep over her disheveled hair and clothing, raises an eyebrow.

"I'm fine." She puts down her tablet and notes onto the table in front of them and eases off her shoes. "Been on my feet the entire day, I never want to walk again."

"Worth it, though." He calls up an OVC screen and urges it over to her with a gentle shove. "Never had a chance to look through the ballots today, haven't you?"

"Ballots? No, no I haven't. Is there - " And Lillian has to sit down, because below the ballot for the newest building to be built, there's the ballot for the OVC Board. Because among the other candidates, **[Platt, Lillian]** is there as well. "I was nominated?"

"There was a message, before you rushed out this morning, you know. Guess you were too busy to focus on it," he adds, with a hint of his former humor.

"I - can't believe it," she murmurs, flicking through the article that comes with the voting screen, a smile and a laugh tugging its way out of her exhausted body.

"Congratulations, Lilli." Frail arms wind around her and she hugs back, laughing. "Thank you, for everything. I don't think I've said it before, but, you know. Thanks."

The next day, Max toasts her for becoming the youngest Chairwoman of the OVC Board with a new dress. And the day after that, she finds him saying that he'd like to try his hand at designing full-time again.

 

* * *

 

Between volleying messages between the rest of the Board and meetings, Lillian makes time to check in on Max's studio, see how he's holding up, now and again. Various terminals are opened up when she walks in, and loud music blasts from a station with the designer sitting in front of a half-finished drawing.

"Your new project?"

He doesn't look up, and his brow furrows deep trenches on his forehead. "A…dress -no, a shirt - I don't know. I can't think of anything quick enough, and by the time I figure a part of it out, the rest evades me."

The ice chip in her gut reforms, and with a sinking heart, she leans on a drawer. "Try to describe it to me? Sometimes you can work things out better that way."

"Alright. See that strap over there? It's supposed to go - to the back? No, to the - argh!" He leans over his desk with his hands clasped over his neck. "No, that's not right, is it?"

"Max - "

"See? I can't do a damn thing without them," Maximilias says to the desktop, and her heart stutters, "I'm just…nothing without them. You've seen how orders dropped, I can't work because I can't think and - I'm not, you know, me."

She reaches for his shoulder, but he jerks and pushes all the discarded designs off the desk, and staggers away from it, away from her. "It's okay," Lillian tries, "You've been doing so well, and everyone has those days, it'll pass."

"I gotta - I have to go. For a walk, or, you know, I have to get out of here, it's - " He reaches the door, and it's as if her feet are rooted - wired - down. "Sorry," he says when he leaves, "I'm so sorry, Lillian."

"Max!" The door clicks shut.

She finds him later that night, twitching and jittery and breathing quick and fast, and she can't tell whether which one of them looks the most devastated.

 

* * *

 

Maximilias receives an invitation to a soiree from Ms. Reisz a few days down the line. Not meeting her eyes - he never could look her fully now that he resumed his habit - he had quietly declined her offer to be his plus-one, as was their usual routine. You have a lot of responsibilities now, _Chairwoman Lillian_ , he had said, _I don't want to drag you down with me, you know?_

Her noodles are the unfortunate victims of her irritation when she sits down in front of her terminal that night. "'Drag me down,'" she hisses, stabbing down with her fork, "What do you mean 'drag me down,' we're not friends for convenience, idiot."

She scrolls the news, and stops short at an article declaring the retirement of the Highrise Hammers' star athlete, Olmarq. Odd, for the young man to retire at his age, despite the debates. Perhaps he was forced off by the managers who didn't want stains on the team's name. Pity.

It sounds familiar, the story, the disappearance - she pulls up a message one of her friends had sent her about a month ago.

                _ > Yon-Dale's made a run for it, I hear. Up and left._

_ > Doesn't want to wait until her probation's over, I suppose._

_ > Shame, I'll miss her touch on the sky.  Won't seem as magical, is all I'm        saying._

_ > Just a little update. I know you've been busier and busier with each new OVC upgrade._

_ > Take care, ok?_

It couldn't be all connected, right? As soon as that thought enters, she shuts the whole screen off, laughing at herself. "Turning paranoid, Platt," she says, taking her dishes to the sink, "coincidences happen."

When she turns in for the night, Maximilias hasn't come home yet - but then, those parties tend to intrude into the early hours of the morning, don't they? She should have gone with him, even with his protests.

 

* * *

 

She wakes to a message, sent hours and hours ago. While she yawns and tries to force some lucidity back into her thoughts, the recording plays:

"Lillian," Max says - he must have stepped out for some air, "Lillian, listen. I was talking to Sybil, and she said something about helping me with my problem - did you know she knew about the relapse? There's this, you know, program or whatever you call it. For people like me. I think, this time, I'll be able to kick this whole habit of mine. I'll see you when I get back home."

The apartment's too quiet, she realizes in the stillness after the message, and all thoughts of returning to sleep wither. "Max?" she calls out - she'll deal with his grumpiness at being woken up early. "Max?"

No answer, and she scrambles out of bed.

No Maximilias in his room, nor anywhere else in the apartment. His studio key is still on the coffee table, and there's nothing to announce her friend's presence, or any evidence that he actually came home. _He's probably staying over_ , she says to herself, _just call Ms. Reisz and tell her that she'll be over to pick him up. Nothing to worry about._

The terminal opens up to the articles and messages she had open from the night before, and the daily headlines pop up before she can start a call.

 **[Disgraced Cloudbank Clothier Moves to the Country]** it announces cheerily, wishing 'Mr. Darzi a happier life away from the pressures of city life,' and Lillian reads again and again without comprehension that Maximilias Darzi, this brilliant and vibrant man, no matter what he struggled with, was gone. _'Moves to the Country.'_ As if he wouldn't tell her about this supposed decision.

She lets out a laugh, because she can't bring herself to do anything else, and finds that she can't stop until her they turn to heaving sobs. And when she's cried all the tears she'll ever cry, when she's wrung dry of anything other than the growing horror that simple coincidences simply weren't, Lillian washes her face and gets ready for the day. She had work to do.

Disappearances. As far as she knew: Olmarq. Yon-Dale. Darzi. Maximilias. Max. Max. _Max_.

 

* * *

 

News of her resignation ripples through the administration, and as she's clearing out her office, more than a couple of coworkers stop by.

"Lillian," they say, "you've barely been here for two years. You have so much ahead of you."

She doesn't pause in transferring her files into her personal terminal. "Something came up."

"It's Darzi's move, isn't it?"

"Not a move," she snaps, "He would have told me if it was."

"Well," they sigh, "you'll always be welcome back when you decide to return."

She thanks them, certainly, but Lillian knows that isn't going to happen.

So she packs up everything, her notes for improvements she leaves for her successor, and she pockets the copied OVC admin access key. _Not really supposed to_ , she reasons, _but I daresay I'll need it more than ever if I hope to get to the bottom of this_. But it doesn't stop the back of her neck from prickling from the stares of hundreds of invisible eyes.

Her heart pounds as she heads to the lift for the last time, and she nearly loses composure when it jerks to a stop and lets in the Administrator Kendrell.

"Ah, Chairwoman Platt," he says, "I heard about your resignation - it came so suddenly, I have to ask what brought this on?"

Because people are disappearing and there's no reports of it, she wants to say, to at least entrust someone with this information. "I did a little soul-searching," she says instead, "and found that my attention has turned from the OVC to some extracurricular interests. Time to, ah, find some new inspiration, I suppose."

When the lift grinds to a halt again, she plasters on a smile. "Have a good day, Administrator Kendrell."

"And you. Best of luck with your pursuits," he says, and she feels his weighty gaze settle onto her shoulders even as she slips into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

"Ms. Reisz," she says, over coffee at the event organizer's favorite café in Highrise. "I know it's been a while since then, but could you tell me whether Max - Maxmilias Darzi, I mean, of course, acted any different at your soiree? "

Sybil frowns in concentrated thought. "Not really. After he and I talked, I drifted back to the party. I only know he left around the time the party ended - maybe he made his decision then."

"You talked about his addiction," Lillian says, "And this program, does it have a name?"

Not a single twitch. "I'm sorry, dear, but I've been so swamped with work - you know how this time of year's always the most exciting. I can send it over after I look through my planner; I made a little note to myself, shouldn't be too hard to find."

"Yes, thank you. You're sure he didn't say anything about the Country while you talked?"

"Now that I think about it, the poor dear did say something about the Country having some peace and quiet."

No. Never. Maximilias had always thrived in the middle of noise and hectic activity. Did his best work when surrounded by it. "Thank you for easing my mind, Ms. Reisz. I do hope he's doing well in the Country."

The other woman takes a sip of her drink, and leans over to pat Lillian's hand. "I'm sure he is."

 

* * *

 

Lillian pays one last visit to Maximilias's studio - and almost wants to keep it as it is, to preserve at least the delusional side of her that believes that her friend just ducked out for some flatbread. Bolts of cloth lining the wall, toppled mannequins and scattered concepts all exactly as he had left it. She picks them up and doesn't have the heart to toss them, toss bits and pieces of Maximilias's soul when she has nothing left of him other than lifeless items.

"Oh Max," she murmurs when she comes across the project he had been working on the last time she was here. A beautiful golden mermaid gown with ruffled feathers along the neckline.

 _Finished!_ , his crisp handwriting proudly states, scribbled onto the corner of the order, the address of delivery and the client listed after it. Lillian picks it up - it would feel wrong to package it off, not for Maximilias Darzi's final project. She'll deliver it herself. It deserves at least that.

But when she's in front of the Highrise building, all she wants to do is to turn around and leave.

"Chairwoman Platt?" the client, the singer Red that Maximilias had always tuned in for, says, "what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ex-Chairwoman," Lillian says, with forced cheer. "Just taking care of, well, unfinished business. This belongs to you, I believe." The bag with Maximilias's last dress drifts from her outstretched hands to the singer's.

"Oh," is the response, "oh, it's beautiful. This is Mr. Darzi's - my order - right?"

"Yes, he finished it before he - he left."

Red folds over the top of the bag and carefully places it inside before turning back to Lillian. "I'm glad it's here, but are you okay? The OVC did say you two were close friends."

"I'm sure wherever he is, he's happier. Thank you for your concern." Has she made a habit of lying, now? The smile feels fixed on her face.

"Thank you for bringing this to me. I have a show in a month or two and Sybil's been so anxious about what I should wear."

"You'll be beautiful," Lillian says, sincerity crackling through her voice. "You'll be a star."

 

* * *

 

OVC terminals in Fairview have had a hard time connecting to the main server, she finds with her access key. And strangely enough, so have the ones in the part of Goldwalk the city had offline for some time now. When she dips into the signals broadcasting from these terminals, all she can decipher is some sort of deletion, the omission of certain key wavelengths - and the rest? Completely jumbled up into an incomprehensible mess.

She almost wants to contact the Administration. Almost.

But ever since she'd found log reports of activity between the Administration and Fairview and Goldwalk Northwest, correspondence between certain individuals that couldn't possibly be coincidence, Lillian sets up precautionary measures to protect her personal OVC and her research.

Olmarq. Yon-Dale. Max.

Now, digging through the past year, she finds more celebrities, more brilliance, gone, swept over like nothing was wrong. How could she have been so blind?

Tennegan, he wouldn't take vacation without telling his beloved listeners. Chein - she went to school with her, how could she forget? And she's pretty unsure whether Shasberg did disappear, but Cloudbank hasn't had one of his announcements in a while.

 

* * *

 

"Lillian?" Sybil calls her one night, "I know you've been preoccupied with your own projects but, I've found someone who can help you find out what made Maximilias move to the Country - I remember you asking about it quite seriously a few weeks ago."

"You have? Who?"

"Listen, dear, I'm in a hurry here - Red's performing soon. They're by the pier by the seafood bistro, you know, by the Bay? So, if you're still interested in that, they'll be there."

What can she do? Months into her investigation and nothing about the disappearance. How did he disappear entirely? So she dons the dress Maximilias had made her so long ago, and walks down to the rendezvous point.

No one is there. _Too close to Goldwalk Northwest_ , her mind whispers.

Then there's the noise that she had heard from the broadcasts from Fairview. The mechanical whirr and jumbled words. She spins around to see things with glowing red eyes bursting from white blocks growing from the ground and then -

 

* * *

 

_We can use her._

 

* * *

 

Lillian Platt jerks awake to a bright blue sky that pierces her eyelids and makes her turn away. Where is she? What…happened? A flash of painful light, red eyes and - the star, she was beautiful, just as Lillian had told her she would be.

A familiar face offers her a hand, and all of those thoughts shudder to a halt. "Max," she says, and lunges at him for a fierce hug.

He buries his face into her hair and returns the gesture as if he was trying to fuse them together, laughing like he was going to cry.

"Hey," he shakes out.

Lillian smiles. "Hey, yourself."

**Author's Note:**

> "...[Lillian Platt] then became the youngest-ever individual to leave the post, as she tendered a resignation in less than two years to pursue extracurricular interests. In private conversations, several of her former colleagues indicated that Ms. Platt left following the sudden disappearance of a close personal friend, Mr. Maximilias Darzi, who according to official OVC transcripts decided one day to move to the Country."
> 
> "And so, against the wishes of his closes confidant and partner, [Maximilias Darzi] resumed his old habits."
> 
>  
> 
> Don't tell me they weren't close because they were and that hurts me in all the best ways.


End file.
